#the entire point is that he’s a normal guy who’s not special or inherently talented

[p-s-yokubo]

I love how basically the entire ninjago community is in agreement that Arin shouldn’t get powers bc that would ruin the point of his character but the nexo knights community is just totally chill with clay getting powers even though that also ruins the point of his character

[chroniclackofselfpreservation]

Creatures of the Night

Chapter 18 - to get burnt by an imitation

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AO3

Masterlist

(TW: pain, verbal abuse, mild violence)

(The title of the chapter comes from "A Promise" by Ernestine Northover)

So many variables, Logan thought, knocking the back of his head against the wall. He’d been sitting on the floor outside the cellar door for who knows how long now, mulling over the plan Virgil had proposed.

“She’ll be back any day now,” he’d explained. “After doing strong magic like that again, I’d be surprised if she wasn’t curious. We’ll have to ambush her. As far as she knows, the curse is still active. She doesn’t have any reason to suspect that Dorian will be on our side.”

“That’s assuming he’s willing to help out,” Roman had pointed out. “The whole reason he accepted the deal was so he wouldn’t have to battle Ursula. I would.”

“We all would,” Patton corrected.

Logan had remained all but silent throughout the process. The others let him be, under the pretense of “intense brainstorming,” but in reality, he was drawing a blank.

He knew nothing about Ursula or her powers, though from what Virgil had described, she sounded pretty invincible. Roman had supposed powers, but knew next to nothing about how they worked, Patton’s ability was more of a passive talent than a weapon, and Virgil was too high on the excitement of having his talisman back to think up a proper, coherent plan. Logan had stepped away, claiming he needed time to think things through��which wasn’t a total lie—and had ended up sitting in the hallway, thinking of nothing.

His eyes flitted over the symbol scorched into the door, its faint purple light pulsing every few seconds.

Is no one in this house normal aside from Logan?

He snorted at the memory of Roman’s words. Normal might be an objective term, but useless wasn’t. He knew any sort of plan that had even a chance of success didn’t involve him. He didn’t have magic. He didn’t have a year’s worth of experience fighting a demon. He had no supernatural ability to tell the future.

Logan was an elementary school teacher. He was that loser from the next class over who thought that looking at bugs during lunch hour was more interesting than talking to real people. He wasn’t a brave knight ready to defend his friend’s honor to an immortal witch.

The only thing he was good at was logic. Being ruthlessly objective. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that he shouldn’t attend the mission. Really, he shouldn’t be involved at all.

Right. So stop being a baby about it and go tell them, he thought harshly.

Stuffing down the dread mounting inside of him, Logan forced himself to his feet and back into the living room.

Things had quieted down after the fiasco that was trapping a goblin in their cellar. Virgil had only given them the barest of details: he was Ursula’s henchman, powerful when he wanted to be, and a total jerk. Now that Virgil’s secret was out, however, he seemed content to roam the house in his feline form. Patton followed him around, making casual conversation despite the fact that Virgil was incapable of replying. The four thin gashes Remus had clawed into his cheek stood out against Patton’s otherwise blemish-free face. He looked like a walking oxymoron. Such a sweet, harmless person looking like he’d tangled with a raccoon over scraps of garbage. Patton had several small scars on his hands, but he’d explained that they were from accidents with hot glue guns and X-Acto knives while crafting with Dot.

“I’m too clumsy for my own good,” he’d say with a shrug and a laugh. Logan would fail to mention the fact that Patton almost never wore short sleeves, and the sneaking suspicion he had that his friend was hiding something. Or maybe he just likes cardigans. Stop being so paranoid.

Roman sat on one of the kitchen stools, a mug of tea Patton had prepared held close to his chest. His knee bounced restlessly as he stared at the ruby-red amulet on the counter in front of him, like he was waiting for it to jump out and bite him. His sun-tanned skin from the summer was starting to fade, which also meant the disappearance of Roman’s annual freckles. He always seemed to develop them in a swath across his nose, making him and Patton look almost related.

Logan blinked, realizing he’d been staring, and walked over. He pulled out the other stool and took a seat. Roman’s head twitched in his direction, like he’d recognized that Logan was there, but couldn’t quite pull himself out of whatever deep thoughts he’d been wading through. His shoulders were tense again.

Logan leaned over. “What tea is that?”

“Lavender.”

“Have you had any of it?”

“No.”

Logan reached out and grabbed the amulet.

Roman’s knuckles went white.

Logan held the jewel up to the light, examining it. “I think we should throw this thing away.”

“But I… need it,” he said, tripping on the words coming out of his mouth.

Logan cocked an eyebrow. “Really? I would think you’d want nothing more to do with it.”

Roman tapped a nail against the mug. “Well, yeah, I hate it. But that doesn’t mean we’re not going to need it when we go up against Ursula.”

“Speaking of which, I’ve come to a conclusion,” Logan said, setting the amulet down. Roman relaxed a bit.

“What’s that?”

“You all will be much better off without me on this mission.”

Patton looked up from the corner of the living room, Virgil trotting easily across the back of the couch. He put his hands on his hips. “What is this wacky talk? Lo, weren’t you the one who wanted us all to stick together from now on?”

“Well, yes,” Logan admitted, “but I’m merely being objective. I don’t have any special skills to contribute, have no unique knowledge about the enemy, and will only be a hindrance to you three.”

Virgil leaped to the ground and resumed his human form, something Logan was still trying to get used to. “You aren’t useless, Logan. You contribute plenty.”

“Well…” Roman said. Virgil shot him an incredulous look. “No! Of course Logan isn’t useless. That’s not what I mean at all,” he amended, holding out a hand. “All I’m saying is that Logan might have a point. Virgil’s the most powerful one here, and I’m what this whole thing is about, not to mention I have a lot more experience with… this kind of stuff.”

“What about me? You can’t possibly think I’m more helpful than Logan, can you?” Patton demanded. “Unless you want me sleeping through the battle, there’s really not much I can offer either.”

“That’s not entirely true,” Virgil said. “You have inherent magic in you, so you can see the truth of things no matter what.”

“The truth of things?”

“That’s how you were able to see Remus and talk to him,” he explained, looking slightly uncomfortable at the amount of attention on him. “Magical creatures like him, or even some spells can be hidden from mortal eyes—like the spell on the cellar door. If… If I wanted to, I could make it so Logan couldn’t see any of it,” he finished haltingly as Logan’s expression wilted.

“It’s settled, then,” Logan said, though it pained him. This was Roman’s curse all over again, except now, he would be sitting at home, alone in the dark, waiting for three of his best friends to return hopefully in one piece.

“No!” Patton cried, looking desperate. “Virgil, if Ursula’s really so powerful, who’s to say she doesn’t come and attack the house while we’re out looking for her? If she’s seen through your eyes like you say she has, then she knows all of our faces. Logan would be alone. We’re safer if we all stay together.”

Logan sighed. “Patton—”

“No, he has a point,” Virgil cut in. “That does seem like something she’d do. I agree with Patton. We can keep each other safer if we’re all together.”

Roman bit his lip. “Okay... I still don’t like it, but you know her best, Virge. So, if you think we’ll be better off together, I’ll go with it.”

“I won’t be dead weight for you guys to carry around,” Logan implored.

Roman put a hand on his shoulder. “You’ll definitely be more dead than weight if you stay here alone, Lo. Trust us on this. Besides,” he said, his face ticking up into that perfect smile that hid his fear, “I wouldn’t want you anywhere else. You know that, don’t you?”

“Of course I do, Roman.” There. We’ll lie to each other and call it even.

Virgil suddenly swayed. He squeezed his eyes shut and grabbed Roman’s shoulder, steadying himself.

Patton’s smile vanished. “Virgil? What’s wrong?”

He shook his head, grimacing. “It’s Ursula. She’s—gah!” Virgil cried out, clutching his head.

“Here. Sit down,” Logan said, carefully guiding him to the dining table. Virgil collapsed into the seat and pressed his forehead against the tabletop, hands tangled in his hair. Logan watched helplessly as his friend whimpered through gritted teeth, trying to control his breathing. At least this feeling of uselessness wasn’t new. Though they now knew the source of Virgil’s sudden headaches, they’d seen him deal with them for years. Each time, the most all three of them could do was sit and keep him company through the worst of it.

Patton placed a comforting hand on Virgil’s back, and Roman watched him suffer with a barely restrained rage burning behind his eyes. Virgil’s shoulder bunched, climbing toward his ears, his shoulder blades cutting sharp angles on his back. His breathing was short and shallow, punctuated by occasional groans or whimpers.

It was strange, seeing Virgil like this after having just seen him so energetic and excited after using the full potential of his powers again.

“Stop it!” Virgil growled, bristling. Patton jerked his hand away, and Logan shot him a comforting look. Patton nodded, though he looked extremely conflicted. They all knew he wasn’t talking to them. Virgil began to tremble, and a strangled sob escaped his lips. Logan’s chest caught. This was getting bad. Worse than most other episodes he’d had.

Patton made a soft, miserable sound.

Roman began pacing, shoulders starting to climb nearly as high as Virgil’s. His hand worked the air, like he was trying to grasp a weapon that wasn’t there.

Something clicked in Logan’s head. Something about seeing his friends like this shoved whatever feelings of uselessness he’d had out of his mind. He may not be able to do much himself in the way of fighting Ursula, but he could support those who could.

“Virgil, listen to me,” Logan said, lips inches from Virgil’s ear. “You can do this. I know you can. We have a plan, and we’re going to beat her.”

Virgil stilled, his trembling fading away. His shoulders relaxed, and he lifted his head. He turned and looked at Logan, a mirthy laugh bubbling out of him. Logan’s blood ran cold.

“You think so, do you?” he said, his lips quirking into a confident smirk.

“What…?” Logan managed through his fumbling mind. The dots were there, he just couldn't connect them. Or maybe he simply didn’t want to. Roman’s head snapped around at Virgil’s words and he stormed forward.

“You leave Virgil alone,” he growled, his voice taking on that tone that made Logan’s skin crawl. Like nails on a chalkboard, but ten times worse.

Virgil stood, the chair squeaking against the tile. His head cocked to the side. “My, my, little prince. You’ve grown, haven’t you! And it’s only been a year. How’s the curse holding up? Oh,” he chuckled, his voice lilting and patronizing, “you must be exhausted. Why don’t you sit down?” Virgil pressed his palm against Roman’s chest. Violet light pulsed outward and Roman flew back into the cabinets.

“Roman!” Patton cried rushing over. Virgil’s neck and arm spasmed, and he looked down at it, as if surprised.

“You’ve gotten more powerful, kitty,” he muttered. “What did you do to poor Remus?”

“We killed him,” Logan said, hoping to hide the tremor in his voice. They couldn’t fight Ursula like this. Not when it was Virgil they’d really be hurting.

Virgil’s attention snapped to him, a smile playing at his lips. “Really? You?”

“We all did,” Logan replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Patton has the scars to prove it.”

Virgil glanced at Patton, who touched his wounds a little self-consciously. He shrugged. “Alright, maybe you did. Makes no difference. You, on the other hand,” he said, his hand shooting out and clamping around Logan’s throat. “Tell me this so-called plan of yours.”

Logan grabbed Virgil’s wrist, but couldn’t pull away. His grip was like iron, though he hadn’t cut off Logan’s airway… yet.

Remain calm. “That would defeat the purpose.”

His nose wrinkled in a snarl. “I could snap your neck like a toothpick.” Virgil’s hand trembled, and he glanced at it angrily. Hope blossomed in Logan’s chest.

“I know you’re in there Virgil.”

“Shut up, you useless mortal. What chance do any of you have against me?” he snapped, his hold tightening. Logan wheezed. “Roman’s the most powerful one here, and he can’t even access his own powers. You’re all weak.”

“Let him go!” Roman bellowed standing.

Virgil threw back his head in a fit of laughter. “Or what? You’ll attack your friend? You can’t touch me, little prince.”

Roman paled.

“You underestimate them,” Logan choked out, the pressure in his head building.

Virgil pulled him closer, their faces inches apart. “Please, you’re the least interesting one here,” he sneered. “I’d kill you out of sheer boredom before you were anywhere close to an actual threat.”

“I know that,” Logan rasped. “But as long as they’re here, you don’t have a chance. Roman is the strongest person I know. Patton is incredible, even if he won’t show it. And Virgil is stronger than you.”

“Really? Well, I think it’s time you took a little nap,” Virgil growled, his lip curling. Instead of constricting, his fingers flew apart, releasing Logan—who collapsed to the ground, gasping and coughing. Virgil stumbled back, his whole frame shaking.

“You insolent little whelp!” he screeched, his voice high and stringy. “Stop it! I am your witch! Worthless, undeserving SCUM YOU CAN’T—” Virgil’s voice cut out and his whole body sagged, like the strings holding him up had been cut.

“Virgil?” Patton asked carefully.

Virgil lifted his head, panting. He gave a shaky thumbs up, then his eyes promptly rolled up into his skull. Roman shot forward, catching him before he could collapse completely.

Logan let out a sigh of relief, flopping onto his back and staring up that the ceiling.

Yes, he might be useless, but he’d definitely be there to make sure his friends weren’t.

[jaywhitecotton]

Fuck Elvis

I used to play this terrible game with some monstrous friends at karaoke shows. It was all based on how Michael Jackson died at the right time and if he molested just one more kid we’d be screwed out of decades of music and nostalgia.

We’d then apply other artists to this molestation scale. Like if MJ set the standard at say 7 known kids we’re pretty sure he finger banged, how many could say Aerosmith’s Steven Tyler get away with?

Turns out - it’s one. One for sure, but I’m pretty sure there would have to be at least three before we as a society are willing to let go of Dream On or Bruce Willis’s meteor sacrifice.

Bob Dylan? So hard. Old white NPR people would blame the motorcycle accident and give up everything after to protect his earlier legacy, but comparing Michael Jackson to Bob Dylan’s importance? He’s got to be able to molest as many - if not three more kids - than the King of Pop, right? I mean Jewish or not, he is still white so that has to give him the edge over Jacko in what he can get away with.

Anyhoo

Comics have been acting like comedy has been bringing “truth to power!” and patting themselves on the back, but thirty years of Michael Jackson jokes couldn’t do what one documentary has done.

Proving if you really want any justice these days, you need to first invest in some production value and an editor who knows how to make criminal acts look especially bad.

The reactions are pouring in and people are very conflicted. Many questioning whether or not it’s ok to like an artist because of their lurid personal life.

Look, can we come to a consensus on just one thing?

Human beings have been giant flesh bags of hot garbage since the very beginning of our upright existence. We started out so bad, we’re not even sure of what are real beginnings were actually like.

And its not even people that are the worst either. Look at life itself.

Nature is gruesome and horrifying! Every nature documentary is inherently a horror movie missing the scary cello mood music. If you knew how much ducks gang-raped in real life you would burn any remanence of all those duck-themed shows from the 90’s.

Even the creation of space and time was the result of a destructive explosion that shit us out into the nothingness of space.

Disagree? Thinks humans are great? Cool. Keep in mind a lot of people watched a movie about a guy who sexually abused children and their first thought was “Can I still grab my dick and effeminately scream ‘ohhhhh’ whenever it gets super windy? Because I don’t want to live in a world where I can’t do that!”

To me anytime a person does something exceptional - THAT should be the thing that is celebrated. Like “Wow, you overcame being a piece of shit and had a moment of triumph for our species, well done ya piece of shit!”

Thomas Jefferson and the Declaration of Independence, Gandhi and Civil Disobedience, Beethoven’s 9th have all stood the test of time and those acts are worthy of praise.

Are we going to really miss Ignition (remix)?

I’m not saying any of these people’s flaws should be ignored, but seriously - there were plenty of slave fuckers, wife abusers, and piss-on-tweeners out there who not only did that shit - but didn’t even have the decency to form an experimental democratic republic placing power in the hands of the people, much less write a catchy tune.

We have got to start holding a higher standard for what we consider legit and meaningful art.

Is Trapped in the Closet really an achievement for humanity? Is the cinematic legacy of Space Jam ruined by the tainting of I Believe I Can Fly?

Was American Beauty and House of Cards our civilization’s finest cinematic moments? Has there been nothing else to watch?

Can we no longer backwards slide dance at house parties because a guy who dressed like a sequined private eye slept with kids?

I’m not saying you can’t still enjoy those things, or even question your feelings about them. I’m saying don’t make those things more important than they actually are. You can both think an actor should be castrated and get lost in visualized fiction.

Just as easily as you can decide to never watch again. It’s all disposable.

To me the real crime is needing a movie like American Beauty to be the pinnacle of human achievement because you got your first handy in the theater when it came out or whatever.

Not that anyone is exactly saying that, but you big bad wolves get my straw house point.

What is the value of achievement? How do we measure what’s important? I’m not sure. Maybe it’s what the consensus decides should stay. Maybe it’s the individual.

Sometimes it feels like a lot of our general arguments are between the perspectives of group thinking socialists versus self-motivated libertarians. Maybe they’re both right, I guess it depends on the situation.

Personally I think most the arguments about entertainers matters most to the people who have a vested interest in brands and making it in the ‘look at me’ industry.

I don’t know if it’s because I’m in the thick of it having done music and standup most of my life and have the same guttural need for a stranger’s approval, but sometimes I feel surrounded by people who treat every moment of their lives like a biopic. Selling themselves on social media as if they’re the subject of their own Rolling Stone exposé.

People who define themselves by the most disposable of expressions and since trying to be good and known is so difficult, decided it’s easier to just simulate success instead of working harder on the mediums.

You know, frauds.

I’m surrounded by a generation of ‘fake it til you make it’ personalities who thrive on all the shit I find utterly useless, meaningless and the worst crime - boring.

Entrepreneurs in narcissism who communicate through gossip and trade in brand expression, littering the artistic landscape with recycled lateral thinking dog turds.

It’s exhausting,debilitating, and absolutely the future as AI replaces our normal careers, forcing all of us into becoming Instagram models and Influencers.

And everyday I have to have deep sobering introspection trying to figure out if I’m not equally culpable in this terrible trap of meaningless thinking.

Not that there’s anything wrong with meaningless. Not everything has to have as everlasting an impact as Ode to Joy.

I mean really, what actually matters if we all die and whatever impact we had becomes erased regardless of whether or not it takes years, months, days or even minutes after we are laid into the ground?

Most of everyone who has been born has meant nothing and left no trace or measurement that they even existed at all. Think of all the stillborn babies who didn’t even get the chance.

Nature the cold hearted bitch strikes again!

People call me jaded and bitter for these thoughts, but I promise you - I hold no anger or selfish need to compensate my own lacking by exclaiming ‘people are mostly shit and none of this will stand the test of time’. I’m very fun at parties.

It’s just the people desperate to matter that think reality is inherently mean.

Celebrate the achievement not the person, but also - let’s not over inflate the achievement to validate our own petty need for someone to hear our folk song about getting a handy while watching American Beauty or whatever.

A quick story.

One of the most talented people I ever met was a dude from Philly named Perone.

Perone played bass and was known across the city as being this incredible player who for some reason just never found a project he clicked with.

I met him when I was 18 and homeless, living in a 24 hour diner he waited tables at. Everyone loved this dude and for some reason he took care of me. Hooking up free salads, sodas, bread. He was the coolest dude I ever met.

I was learning guitar and we both loved 70’s soul and blues music so we’d jam together which in hindsight was wild.

I had no fucking idea what I was doing and yet here was this genius jamming patiently along.

Teaching me without putting in a show that he was actually teaching me, if that makes sense?

Was he perfect? No. Not at all. He was charismatic as fuck, but obviously weighted down with some demons.

The weirdest thing I could say about him - and I don’t know how to even properly frame this was - he used to draw on bed sheets.

For years he had a dream about a woman he never met and would paint her face on the bed sheets and attach lyrics to songs he was writing next to her face. These sheets hung all over his walls.

Keep in mind he was living with a girl at the time. He had a kid, yet here were all these sheets dedicated to a fictional white woman he was obsessed with, hung like championship banners across his entire two bedroom apartment.

My last conversation with Perone was perfect. I sat strumming his guitar while he smoked meth out of a can of Pepsi, telling me how Michael Jackson was the King.

Every click of the lighter, every inhale and exhale would punctuate just how much Michael Jackson meant to the world and music.

How Motown celebrated their 25th anniversary with a tv special and Michael Jackson came out and destroyed with the moonwalk.

“Dude, (click) black people loved Michael (inhale). White people loved Michael. (exhale)Young people loved Michael. (cough) Old people loved Michael. (click) None of this race or generation shit mattered. (inhale) It was because of the music and HE did that. (exhale) He bridged everything together in that one moment. (violent cough) Michael Jackson is and will always be the King. (click) Fuck Elvis.”

That was twenty years ago. I have no idea if he’s still alive, earned a living with his music or met the woman he’d dreamt and painted for years. Or if instead he succumbed to meth, took his own life and or manages an Olive Garden.

I don’t know and I don’t have to. I miss him and appreciate the things we shared that mattered and helped me grow as a person, but that’s all it ever will be.

Let justice be done and handled by those involved in their situation and value only the things and constructs that have some permanence or growth in your own life.

Either way you will still die, and wether it’s alone and forgotten or if it takes centuries for people to forget you were a miserable deaf cunt who wrote some sweet jams - you’ll eventually be nothing.

Fuck Elvis.

[lelou-quotes]

In Defense of Being Average

There’s this guy. World-renowned billionaire. Tech genius. Inventor and entrepreneur. Athletic and talented and handsome with a jaw so chiseled it looks like Zeus came down from Olympus and carved the fucker himself.

This guy’s got a small fleet of sports cars, a few yachts, and when he’s not giving millions of dollars to charities, he’s changing out supermodel girlfriends like other people change their socks.

This guy’s smile can melt the damn room. His charm is so thick you can swim in it. Half of his friends were TIME’s “Man of the Year.” And the ones who weren’t don’t care because they could buy the magazine if they wanted to. When this guy isn’t jetsetting around the world or coming up with the latest technological innovation to save the planet, he spends his time helping the weak and helpless and downtrodden.

This man is, you guessed it, Bruce Wayne. Also known as the Batman. And (spoiler alert) he doesn’t actually exist. He is fiction.

It’s an interesting facet of human nature that we seem to have a need to come up with these sort of fictional heroes that embody perfection and everything we wish we could be. Medieval Europe had its tales about gallant knights slaying dragons and saving princesses. Ancient Rome and Greece had their myths about heroes who won wars single-handedly and in some cases confronted the Gods themselves. Every other human culture is replete with such fantastical stories as well.

And today, we have comic book superheroes. Take Superman. I mean, the guy is basically a God with a human body wearing a blue jumpsuit and red underpants on inside-out. He is indestructible and unbeatable. And the only thing as sturdy as his physical fortitude is his moral fortitude. In Superman’s world, justice is always black/white, and Superman never wavers from doing what’s right. No matter what.

I don’t think I’m exactly shaking up the field of psychology by suggesting that, as humans, we have a need to conjure up these heroes to help us cope with our own feelings of powerlessness. There are over 7.2 billion people on this planet, and really only about 1,000 of those have major worldwide influence at any given time. That leaves the other 7,199,999,000 +/- of us to come to terms with the limited scope of our lives and the fact that the vast majority of what we do will likely not matter long after we’ve died. This is not a fun thing to think about or accept.

Today, I want to take a detour from our “make more, buy more, fuck more” culture and argue for the merits of mediocrity, of being blasé boring and average.

Not the merits of pursuing mediocrity, mind you — because we all should try to do the best we possibly can — but rather, the merits of accepting mediocrity when we end up there despite our best efforts.

BEHIND THE CURVE

Everything in life is a trade-off. Some of us are born with high aptitudes for academic learning. Others are born with great physical skills. Others are athletic. Others are artistic. Others can fuck like rabbits and never break a sweat. In terms of skills and talents, humans are a wildly diverse group of smelly creatures. Sure, what we end up accomplishing in life ultimately depends on our practice and effort, but we are all born with different aptitudes and potentials.

This here is called a bell curve. Any of you who have taken a statistics class and survived will recognize it.

A bell curve is quite simple. Take a population of people, like, let’s say people who play golf at least once a year. The horizontal axis represents how good they are at golf. Further to the right means they’re really good, further to the left means they’re really bad.

Now, notice that it gets really thin at the far ends of the curve. That means there are a few people who are really, really good at golf. And a few people who are really, really bad. The majority fall into the mediocre middle.

We can apply a “curve” in this way to tons of things in a population. Height. Weight. Emotional maturity. Wages. How often people like to fuck. And so on.1

For example, this is Michael Jordan dunking a basketball:

It’s well-known that he’s one of the best to ever do it. Therefore, he’s way on the right side of the bell curve, better than 99.99% of anyone else who has ever dunked a basketball. Few can compare.

Then you have this guy:

Obviously, he’s no Michael Jordan. In fact, chances are many people reading this right now could do much better than this guy. That means he’s probably towards the bottom end of the bell curve, an extreme on the other side.

We stand in awe of MJ because he’s more athletic than all of us.2 We laugh at the trampoline guy because he’s less athletic than most of us. Both are at different extremes of the bell curve. And most of us are the majority in the middle.

WE’RE ALL PRETTY AVERAGE AT MOST THINGS

We all have our own strengths and weaknesses. But the fact is, most of us are pretty average at most things we do. Even if you’re truly exceptional at one thing — say math, or jump rope, or making money off the black gun market — chances are you’re pretty average or below average at most other things. That’s just the nature of life. To become truly great at something, you have to dedicate time and energy to it. And because we all have limited time and energy, few of us ever become truly exceptional at more than one thing, if anything at all.

We can then say that it is a complete statistical improbability that any single person can be an extraordinary performer in all areas of their life, or even many areas of their life. Bruce Wayne does not exist. It just doesn’t happen. Brilliant businessmen are often fuck ups in their personal lives. Extraordinary athletes are often shallow and as dumb as a lobotomized rock. Most celebrities are probably just as clueless about life as the people who gawk at them and follow their every move.

We’re all, for the most part, pretty average people. It’s the extremes that get all of the publicity. We all kind of intuitively know this, but we rarely think and/or talk about it. The vast majority of us will never be truly exceptional at, well, anything. And that’s OK.

Which leads to an important point: that mediocrity, as a goal, sucks. But mediocrity, as a result, is OK.

Few of us get this. And fewer of us accept it. Because problems arise — serious, “My God, what’s the point of living” type problems — when we expect to be extraordinary. Or worse, we feel entitled to be extraordinary. When in reality, it’s just not viable or likely. For every Michael Jordan or Kobe Bryant, there are 10 million scrubs stumbling around parks playing pickup games… and losing. For every Picasso or DaVinci there have been about a billion drooling idiots eating Play-Doh and slapping around fingerpaints. And for every Leo Motherfucking Tolstoy, there’s a lot of, well, me, scribbling and playing at writer.

THE TYRANNY OF A CULTURE OF EXCEPTIONALISM

So here’s the problem. I would argue that we have this expectation (or this entitlement) more today than any other time in history. And the reason is because of the nature of our technology and economic privilege.

Having the internet, Google, Facebook, YouTube and access to 500+ channels of television is amazing. We have access to more information than any other time in history.

But our attention is limited. There’s no way we can process the tidal waves of information flowing through the internet at any given time. Therefore the only ones that break through and catch our attention are the truly exceptional pieces of information. The 99.999th percentile.

All day, every day, we are flooded with the truly extraordinary. The best of the best. The worst of the worst. The greatest physical feats. The funniest jokes. The most upsetting news. The scariest threats. Non-stop.

Our lives today are filled with information coming from the extremes of the bell curve, because in the media that’s what gets eyeballs and the eyeballs bring dollars. That’s it. Yet the vast majority of life continues to reside in the middle.3

It’s my belief that this flood of extreme information has conditioned us to believe that “exceptional” is the new normal. And since all of us are rarely exceptional, we all feel pretty damn insecure and desperate to feel “exceptional” all the time. So we must compensate. Some of us do this by cooking up get-rich-quick schemes. Others do it by taking off across the world to save starving babies in Africa. Others do it by excelling in school and winning every award. Others do it by shooting up a school. Others do it by trying to have sex with anything that talks and breathes.

There’s this kind of psychological tyranny in our culture today, a sense that we must always be proving that we’re special, unique, exceptional all the time, no matter what, only to have that moment of exceptionalism swept away in the current of all the other human greatness that’s constantly happening.

For instance, here’s a five-minute video of nothing but some of the most amazing feats you can imagine:

The crazy thing is that every single person in this video, for their five seconds of incredible footage, likely spent years and years and years practicing their craft as well as dozens of hours of recording to just get that perfect five-second spot.

Yet we are not exposed to those years of practice. Or those hours of drab and failed footage. We’re merely exposed to each person’s absolute finest moment — possibly in their entire lives.

And then we watch this and forget about it within minutes. Because we’re onto the next thing. And then the next.

B-B-B-BUT, IF I’M NOT GOING TO BE SPECIAL OR EXTRAORDINARY, WHAT’S THE POINT?

It’s an accepted part of our culture today to believe that we are all destined to do something truly extraordinary. Celebrities say it. Business tycoons say it. Politicians say it. Even Oprah says it. Each and every one of us can be extraordinary. We all deserve greatness.

The fact that this statement is inherently contradictory — after all, if everyone was extraordinary, then by definition, no one would be extraordinary — is missed by most people, and instead we eat the message up and ask for more. (More tacos, that is.)

Being “average” has become the new standard of failure. The worst thing you can be is in the middle of the pack, the middle of the bell curve.

The problem is that, statistically speaking, pretty much all of us are in the middle of that bell curve almost all of the time, in almost everything we do. Sure, you might be a world-class putt-putt golfer. But then you have to go home and be a lousy father and get drunk on cheap beer faster than 90% of the population and piss the bed at night. Or worse, you could be Tiger Woods. No one stays exceptional for very long.

A lot of people are afraid to accept mediocrity because they believe that if they accept being mediocre, then they’ll never achieve anything, never improve, and that their life doesn’t matter.

I find this sort of thinking to be dangerous. Once you accept the premise that a life is only worthwhile if it is truly notable and great, then you basically accept the fact that most of the human population sucks and is worthless. And ethically speaking, that is a really dark place to put yourself.

But most people’s problem with accepting being average is more practical. They worry that, “If I accept that I’m average, then I’ll never achieve anything great. I’ll have no motivation to improve myself or do something great. What if I am one of the rare few?”

This, too, is a misguided belief. The people who become truly exceptional at something do so not because they believe they’re exceptional. On the contrary, they become amazing because they are obsessed with improvement. And that obsession with improvement stems from an unerring belief that they are, in fact, not that great at all. That they are mediocre. That they are average. And that they can be so much better.

This is the great irony about ambition. If you wish to be smarter and more successful than everybody else, you will always feel like a failure. If you wish to be the most loved and most popular, then you will always feel alone. If you wish to be the most powerful and admired, then you will always feel weak and impotent.

All of this “every person can be extraordinary and achieve greatness” stuff is basically just jerking off your ego. It’s shit sold to you to make you feel good for a few minutes and to get you through the week without hanging yourself in your cubicle. It’s a message that tastes good going down, but in reality, is nothing more than empty calories that make you emotionally fat and bloated, the proverbial Big Mac for your heart and your brain.

The ticket to emotional health, like physical health, comes from eating your veggies — that is, through accepting the bland and mundane truths of life: a light salad of “you’re actually pretty average in the grand scheme of things” and some steamed broccoli of “the vast majority of your life will be mediocre.” This will taste bad at first. Very bad. You will avoid eating it.

But once ingested, your body will wake up feeling more potent and more alive. After all, that constant pressure to always be something amazing, to be the next big thing, will be lifted off your back. The stress and anxiety of feeling inadequate will dissipate. And the knowledge and acceptance of your own mundane existence will actually free you to accomplish what you truly wish to accomplish with no judgments and no lofty expectations.

You will have a growing appreciation for life’s basic experiences. You will learn to measure yourself through a new, healthier means: the pleasures of simple friendship, creating something, helping a person in need, reading a good book, laughing with someone you care about.

Sounds boring, doesn’t it? That’s because these things are average. But maybe they’re average for a reason. Because they are what actually matter.

https://markmanson.net/being-average

[onestowatch]

INTERVIEW: Secret Weapons Unleash The “Ghost” From Upcoming LP

When you get to the party and your friend hands you the AUX cable, you’ll likely want to immediately blast the Secret Weapons EP, which came out last year. It’s a rare occasion when a band’s first four songs are all fun, party-worthy and undeniably catchy. If you had the chance to see the boys open last summer for Panic! At The Disco, Weezer, or Fall Out Boy, then you’ll know that the energy of this synth-rock duo is more than infectious, to put it lightly.

With Secret Weapons’ freshly reimagined rock sounds drenched ever so delicately in ‘80s vibes, the four songs on the self-titled EP are undoubtedly the ones I play when I need to be put into a good mood. I played the EP for a friend recently, and the immediate response was, “Wow, I would have roller skated the SHIT out of these songs”--the might quite possibly be the most accurate response I’ve ever heard.

I won’t harp on the fact that these guys spent the first part of their career working normal nine-to-five jobs, secretly making music right under L.A. Reid’s nose--in the legal department at Epic records, but it’s safe the say their secret is now out for everyone to hear. 

But what’s next for Danny Rocco and Gerry Lange isn’t all fun and games, as they explore a darker side of their inherent talent to write hits. As they release their first single from their upcoming full length album, it’s clear to see that the boys are digging deeper. While the earlier songs had Steve Winwood and Go West’s influences trickling off of them, “Ghost” appears to put on display inspiration from their soul side. Gerry’s vocal mixes a gospel influence with the pop perfection of an early Michael Jackson, while the lyrics call out a universal present-day feeling: “just a ghost inside the shell.”

Don’t go pointing fingers and call them “pop”  though, as the genre box is not something Danny and Gerry will sit inside of without a fight. One listen to “Ghost” and attempting to define the boys will fly out the window, as you fall into the groove of that soulful sax with no way out. Read more about Secret Weapons in our Q&A below.

OTW: Your EP was released last year—how does “Ghost” sound different than the songs we’ve heard from you before?

SW: “Ghost” sounds quite a bit different than the EP. We embraced the darker and more percussive elements of our personalities that we've been wanting to develop for a long time.  We wanted to tell a specific story through a song that sounded how New York feels at night.

OTW: You guys have a weird discovery story--can you please explain how “Something New” was recorded/released and discovered by LA Reid?

Gerry: We recorded this big song in a tiny studio apartment on the lower east side. It was around 2am on a Tuesday morning when we tracked the outro to the last chorus. We sat down for a second and thought, “Wow, we really have something here.” Danny was working at Sony at the time and a few of his co-workers knew he was in a band. One let it slip to L.A. Reid that a song was trending high on the viral charts, and the rest was history.

OTW: You toured a bit with Weezer and Panic! At the Disco--what kind of surreal moments have you had up until this point?

SW: Playing to tens of thousands of people in a stadium or raceway is always a surreal experience. It's a high we're constantly chasing.

OTW: What is your favorite tour story so far? Does anyone do anything weird on tour like snore really loud or get lost constantly?

SW: Our drummer snores; he's really good at it. One time we were driving through the night from Southern California to North Dakota and a semi-truck grazed the entire side of van at top speed. Took the mirror right off. A few more inches to the right, and we wouldn't be here. Can't say it's our favorite story but it's one we like to remind ourselves of often.

OTW: You played Firefly festival recently, and last year you did Lollapalooza and a bunch of others--what is your favorite part about playing at festivals?

SW: It's amazing to see everything and everyone at once. On tour, there's a tour bus or two--but showing up and seeing so many different artists in one place carries a special sort of "first day of school" excitement. Especially if it's someone you grew up worshipping.

OTW: Your fans came up with the name of the fan club, the “DanGer” Team (Danny + Gerry = DanGer). Can you please explain how that came about and how/when you found out about it?

SW: We always wanted to start a team and tweeted out asking for name ideas. It's one of the responses that came in, and we thought it was hilarious and super clever, so we gave them our blessing on it and they went to town.

OTW: You recently rewarded fans by sending out personalized videos for signing up for the DanGer Team--how many of those did you end up making?

SW: Almost 400..It took days...

OTW: Did you receive any weird notes from any of your fans who signed up? What’s the weirdest thing a fan has ever done for you (in-person or on social media)?

SW: Yes, but we take our fans’ weird secrets to the grave. I'd say the "weirdest" thing is any time someone does a cover of our song. It's pretty surreal the way some people can reinterpret something that's so fixed in stone for us, and it always takes us by surprise.

OTW: What other perks are involved with being on the DanGer team? Where can people join if they still want to be a part of it?

SW: Our site www.secretweaponsofficial.com. We send out tons of personal vids and shit that we would probably never post.

OTW: What else can we look forward to from the rest of the album? Will we hear everything on the SW spectrum from pop to rock to robot sounds breathing?

SW: We really dug deep on this album. We wrote dozens and dozens of songs that simply did not bear our souls enough and selected only the ones that really said what we want to say. We hate taking that process and reducing to some genre. We're sick of indie, alt, pop, whatever... If you ask, we'll call ourselves a “rock band.” Bands are all we've ever known.

OTW: I know you guys sometimes record in rooms under pillow forts and things to get the sounds you want--what’s the weirdest set up you’ve done for a recording?

SW: We did not have a microphone one time, so we took a pair of headphones, reversed them and turned the speakers into a microphone, then sang into the headphone ears to record a part.

OTW: What are your plans for the rest of the year? 

SW: Tons of music, and as many shows as we can possibly play.

OTW: Who are your Ones to Watch artists?

SW: Our buddy Lauv is amazing but he's already way on his way up. Saw Morgxn at Bowery Ballroom a few nights ago and he was really incredible.

For More on Secret Weapons: 

Web | Instagram | Snapchat: @secretweaponsBK | Spotify 

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